Hey, Taylor Swift: Shakespeare Want His Story Back

It started at the gym. For some reason, my hip-hop rockin’ gym music turned soft and played Taylor Swift’s Love Story the other day. If you know anything about the song Love Story, you know it stays in your head—forever—but the longer it stayed in my head, the more I thought about it. The more I thought about it, the more I realized Taylor Swift never went to high school. And if she did, she got through on looks alone.

I’m not bashing Taylor Swift, per se. She seems like a nice person, and I like her fashion style. However, the song Love Story is a sad reminder of cultural idiocy, and it irritated me to the point of actual wrath. Wanna hear some of the lyrics? Sure you do.

See you make your way through the crowd
And say, “Hello,” Little did I know…
That you were Romeo, you were throwing pebbles,
And my daddy said, “Stay away from Juliet”
And I was crying on the staircase
Begging you, “Please don’t go…”

Okay, so we have the basic plotline. She is Juliet; her beau is Romeo. We know how this turns out, but apparently, Taylor Swift does not. At the end of the song, the star-crossed lovers end up happily ever after. They get married, with Daddy’s blessing. The last line of the song is, “We were both young when I first saaaaaaw you,” when the last line should actually be, “Then we killed ourselves in the family toooo-ooomb …” There is furthermore an allusion to the Scarlet Letter: “cause you were Romeo—I was a scarlet letter.” Is she trying to say she was an adulterous? Because that’s cool, if that’s what she’s trying to say; however, I’m pretty sure that’s not what she’s trying to say.

It isn’t all Taylor’s fault. Like I said, maybe she didn’t go to high school, so maybe she’s not aware that Romeo and Juliet represent one of the most tragic love stories in the history of literature. Maybe she doesn’t know that being Hester Prynne isn’t a good thing. But what about the adults who said, “Yeah, that song has some strong lyrics. Let’s record it and put it on the radio.” Then, there were the award nominations and through-the-roof album sales. Who’s to blame for all that? Well, I guess we are. Not me personally, since I can’t stand Taylor Swift’s music, but in a way I feel responsible, because it took me this long to write a blog post about it.

Ms. Swift is not the only guilty party. Cultural confusion apparently afflicts many modern musicians. Recently, Maroon 5 came out with a catchy tune called “Moves like Jagger.” The chorus goes (barf):

I don’t need to try to control you
Look into my eyes and I’ll own you
With them moves like Jagger
I’ve got the moves like Jagger

I don’t dislike lead singer Adam Levine. He seems like an okay dude, but I wonder, Mr. Levine, have you ever seen the moves of Mick Jagger? Personally, when he’s on stage, I worry he’s on the cusp of seizure. That’s just my opinion, but formulate your own by watching this video.

The Mick Jagger confusion continues with Ke$ha (yes, the idiot uses a dollar sign in her name). It’s bad enough that the woman can’t actually sing; she has to bastardize the American language in the process. In her song “Tik Tok,” not only does she make asinine allusions to P. Diddy and Jack Daniel’s, but she says:

And now, the dudes are lining up cause they hear we got swagger
But we kick em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger.

Honey. Sweetheart. I know you’re young, but if you saw a guy who looked like Mick Jagger (even young Mick Jagger), you’d probably be running for the door.

What happened to good song lyrics? What happened to sensible artists? It wouldn’t be such a big deal; I can turn off the radio and listen to my own CDs. But these people—the ones I’ve mentioned above—are the ones selling albums. They’re the ones nominated for awards. They’re the ones “kids” listen to, and “kids” are losing brain cells in the process. And KIDS are supposed to be OUR FUTURE! <Scream of terror!>

I’m sick of having Taylor Swift in my head. I’m sick of listening to the radio. I didn’t want to be mean today, but I couldn’t help it. Being mean is sometimes the only way to make people wake up and stop listening to the crap they’re being fed. For your own sake, go buy a CD by an artist you would never hear on the radio. Give a newbie a chance. You might strike gold.

Mom’s Unusual Trip to Jamaica

Walking down the street from their dorm ...

When you think “Jamaica,” you usually think white sand, turquoise water, and cocktails with umbrellas. Well, my mom’s trip over there wasn’t usual. She just returned from a mission trip to the island country, and it was anything but glamorous. Here, she shares some of her experiences with you. Introducing my mama, Janet Dobie.

***

First of all, I would advise everyone to go on a mission trip if you have the opportunity. It takes you totally outside yourself and makes you trust God to take care of everything, because you have no other choice. You also become part of a team and quickly become very close to that team because you eat, sleep, wash, and dress in very close quarters and, usually, in primitive conditions.

Our dorm rooms featured bunk beds and no glass in the windows. Instead, there were little wood slats that we could turn down or up and a bathroom with no hot water and one toilet for eight women to share. I slept like a rock, though, almost every night because I was so tired from the work we did each day. I woke early the first morning and sat on a bench outside our room in the hall. The sky was a beautiful dark blue with light growing brighter in the east. I had a wonderful time of prayer and meditation, feeling so peaceful in the quiet. I watched the sun rise over the mountains from our dorm window.

The dorm rooms in Jamaica. And my mom used to say I was messy in college. HEH!

My roommate and I were both nurses, and our job was to hand out hygiene kits that we brought to the school children and to do some teaching there. This was exciting but made me nervous when I thought of getting up in front of rooms of kids. My daughter can vouch for me when I say that kids are not my thing. I am much more comfortable in front of a group of adults than children. But this is what mission work is and why it makes you more dependent on God. He takes you out of your comfort zone and says “Here, do this!”

So a group of us went to the school and taught the three-year-old through fifth grade students about how to brush their teeth and wash their hands, along with general hygiene. It went amazingly well, and the children were polite, attentive, and beautiful. We gave them their own toothbrushes, and I was shocked at how many didn’t already have one. The next morning, we were asked to teach the sixth grade girls and boys about HIV/AIDS and STI’s. (That’s “sexually transmitted infections.” They changed the name, but I still think they should be called “sexually transmitted diseases”! That sounds scarier, which they are! )

Mike, a male nurse on our team, spoke to the boys, and Cindy, the other nurse, and I would tackle the girls. I was quite nervous, even though I had prepared what I was presenting and studied the material that we brought. Cindy went first and taught about HIV/AIDS, and then it was my turn. I stood up front and started talking. I felt relaxed and confident, and the girls asked lots of questions of Cindy and me both. They seemed really interested! (The most challenging question was during our discussion of condoms and involved the use of a bread bag … Amazingly, we were able to maintain our composure and answer the question.)

After we finished, the Head Girl, Kim, thanked us for teaching them and helping them to learn this information. She seemed very sincere and I thought, “This is why I’m here.” What a blessing those girls were to me, and I hope the information that we gave will help them to make wise decisions in the future. The other members of the team did many other activities during the week, like construction, installing a new bell system at the school, and Bible School for the kids. I helped with those things, too, but my favorite time was spent at the school where I felt God’s presence and strength leading me.

I’m back home now in my warm, comfortable house with my hot running water and all my stuff, but those beautiful children and the other Jamaicans I met will stay in my heart for a long time. Hopefully, I will be able to go back and see them again. I know God will go with me and continue to push me out of my comfort zone to serve in whatever way He wants me to. I hope He does the same for you!

***

Jake and I donated some cash to my mom’s Jamaica trip fund, and I was thrilled to learn our cash went toward the new bell system at the school. In my head, I imagine the bell going off right before recess and a bunch of happy Jamaican kids running out into the sun. I’m blessed to have had my mom as a role model all my life. Soon, I hope to do a mission trip of my own. I’m sure I’ll be freaked out, but I find God works best when I’m in a state of panic. Thanks for sharing your trip with us, Mama!

That's my mama, with the short hair and glasses, hangin' out with students.

Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen: Bayou Cookin’ in Phoenix

Did you know Red Lobster is dangerous? Yeah. Me neither. Here’s how it happened. Right before Christmas, I ran in to the nearest Red Lobster to buy a gift card for Jake’s grandpa. I thought it would be a simple task, but when I walked in and smelled seafood I got sick to my stomach.

At my first oyster roast on Sullivan's Island in South Carolina. Love.

Not because I don’t like seafood. I love seafood. This was something else. This was something I didn’t even realize I missed, and that “something” was Charleston, South Carolina. Now, as I’ve mentioned before, I don’t miss the person I was in Charleston. I don’t miss the dating scene in Charleston. I don’t miss humidity, but I do miss oysters from Charleston. I miss the ambience of gas-lamp-lit streets at night and cobblestone pathways. I miss the way every restaurant in Charleston smells like seafood and how you can sit on Shem Creek and have a beer while watching shrimp boats unload their bounty.

This realization, while standing in Red Lobster, was enough to make me sit at the bar and take deep breaths. I got all emotional! I know, me? Emotional? Unbelievable right? Ha. But seriously, when I got back to my car, I felt all shaky and desperate to be back in Charleston if only for a day.

I told Jake about it that night—the way the smell of a seafood restaurant had cast me back to 2008 and Charleston, the Most Beautiful City on Earth. Then, last weekend, Jake suggested we go on a date, but he wouldn’t tell me where we were going. First, we sat outside on the porch and drank Corona. No, it wasn’t because I particularly like Corona. It was because drinking Corona outside while watching a sunset reminded me of being in Charleston, where I did stuff like that all the time. We set off on our surprise date soon after, and what a surprise it was when Jake pulled into the parking lot of a mysterious restaurant called “Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen.” And what bliss when I walked in to the smell of seafood!

I can’t describe the joy. A wave of ecstatic enthusiasm washed over me like Atlantic Ocean foam. I could barely refrain from running up to the bar and shouting, “Oyster shooters! NOW! … And where are your raw oysters from? Galveston? Sure! I’ll take a dozen! …. You make a good Bloody Mary? Sure! Two of them! HOORAH!”

The place was packed, which is always a good sign. It was filled to exploding with a completely mixed demographic, which makes me truly believe that no one is immune to creatures of the sea. The wait staff was pleasant, funny, and accommodating. The oyster shooters weren’t as good as the ones on East Bay in Charleston, but nothing is perfect. The raw oysters themselves—served with rockin’ fresh horseradish—were practically orgasmic. I did my best to subdue my obnoxious moans of enjoyment, but I couldn’t help it. It had been months since my last raw oyster, and girlfriend has an addiction. The seared scallops were a little salty, but I ate every last one. Jake and I both cleaned our plates; we were so full, we barely made it home before we both fell asleep.

If you like seafood and you find yourself living in a land-locked state called Arizona, you have to try Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen. It’s like a pool of warm ocean water in the middle of the desert. It’ll bring back memories you never knew you had, and for a moment, you can pretend you’re sitting on a beach at dusk, watching Southern boys shuck oysters into ice-filled buckets.

Pappadeaux's back patio in Phoenix. Did I mention they have live music??

Melancholia and von Trier’s Take on Depression

First, play this song in the background while you read. It’s Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde prelude, and it plays throughout most of Melancholia.

Now, an important question: how do I review the newest Lars von Trier film without giving too much away? Well, I suppose I could start with my very emotional response. I saw Melancholia this past Saturday in Tempe. I attended the film by myself, because I wanted to see the film so badly, I couldn’t wait to “make plans” with a friend. I drove across town and sat in a dark theater with the Sour Patch Kids I snuck inside.

I did not cry during the movie at all. I watched it from start to finish, collected my purse at the closing credits, walked to my car, sat down in the driver’s seat, and then I started sobbing. Alone in a parking lot in Tempe. I sobbed my face off.

Days later, I’m still not sure why this happened. I don’t know why the film elicited such emotion. But I have given the film itself a lot of thought since Saturday, and I must say: it deserves every award it receives and then some, even if it did make me cry.

I have only seen one other film written and directed by eccentric Dane, Lars von Trier, and it was Dancer in the Dark with Björk at the helm. In the case of Dancer in the Dark, I didn’t make it to my car; I sobbed for the entire last fifteen minutes of the film. I know this all sounds pointless—seeing movies that make me cry—but in the case of Dancer in the Dark and Melancholia, there’s nothing pointless about it. These are films that make me feel. They make me consider the sacrifices people make and, particularly with Melancholia, how occasional depression is not something I suffer alone.

The one sentence synopsis of Melancholia: A crazy chick gets married while a ghostly planet threatens to destroy life on earth. Simple, right? Wrong. It starts with an awkwardly slow montage of images, set above Wagner’s prelude (which you’re listening to right now, aren’t you?). The images don’t mean too much at the onset, but they make a lot of sense as the movie progresses. Then, you’re tossed into the middle of a dysfunctional family wedding, featuring the awe-inspiring Kirsten Dunst as the bride, Justine. Everything seems peachy, until you begin to realize Justine is, to put it lightly, quite mad.

Or is she? The storyline for Melancholia came from one of von Trier’s own therapy sessions, being an extreme depressive himself. His therapist told him that people suffering from depression deal much better with natural disasters and unexpected tragedy, because to them, could things really get any worse? Disaster is almost a relief to a true depressive, which creates the majestic character arc that is Justine’s decent into madness and eventual rise to serenity.

The incoming disaster is epitomized in the mystery planet known as “Melancholia.” Melancholia is threating to ram Earth, but scientists say, no, it’ll go right past. The approach of the planet is almost like a countdown, as you are left to wonder, will the planet hit or won’t it? Of course, von Trier uses “Melancholia” as a double entendre: it’s a big, blue planet, but it is also the state of living for both Justine and her desperate sister, Claire, played by Charlotte Gainsbourg—seemingly a favorite of von Trier’s, as she also appeared in his earlier film, Antichrist.

Claire just wants things to be okay. She wants to keep her family safe and happy, but you can feel her creeping anxiety and depression; you can feel that she’s only a couple steps from totally losing it like Justine. But has Justine really lost her marbles? It’s not clear until the end of the film.

At its basest, Melancholia is gorgeous. The imagery makes your heart swell. More importantly, Melancholia is an in-your-face, honest study of depression and how it ruins lives. Is it a cheerful film? God, no. Should you see it? Yes. Of course. Just nominate an emotionally stoic friend to drive you home.

Yoga Bitch is Awesome (even the part about pee)

I count myself lucky to have randomly stumbled upon Suzanne Morrison’s book trailer for Yoga Bitch: One Woman’s Quest to Conquer Skepticism, Cynicism, and Cigarettes on the Path to Enlightenment. I connected with her. I, too, am a yoga freak, writer, and past lover of cigarettes. Therefore, I just had to read her book … and I was not disappointed.

Yoga Bitch follows twenty-five-year-old Suzanne as she first discovers yoga, becomes obsessed with yoga, and ends up joining her Seattle-based yoga instructors on a teachers’ intensive program in Bali, Indonesia. When we first meet young Suzanne, she is preparing to move to New York with her boyfriend, which will happen upon her immediate return from Bali. Or will it?

Yoga Bitch is tailored toward the yoga practitioner, but it’s funny for everyone. There is an entire segment about farting in yoga class that I read to my husband, because he’s always worried someone will fart in yoga class and he won’t be able to keep a straight face. There’s another scene where Suzanne swears she has joined a cult, because all the other yoga students in Bali drink their own pee every morning. It’s good for you or something. Right. Ick. Ick. It’s a very dramatic issue as the reader must wait and wonder if Suzanne will become an odious piss-drinker, as well, someday. You’ll have to read it to find out.

Although Yoga Bitch is hilarious, it is not the comedy that makes this book great. It’s the honesty. At the age of twenty-five, Suzanne is lost. She thinks she knows what she wants, but she’s not quite sure. She doesn’t quite believe in God, but she wants to. She’s not certain of her relationship and moving to New York, but she feels like it’s what she’s “supposed” to do. I also love the fallen idols of Suzanne’s picture-perfect yoga instructors, Indra and Lou. Nobody is perfect, despite appearances, and Yoga Bitch proves it.

Beautiful Bali.

This book is a voyage. Not only do we get a beautifully depicted look at the earthly heaven that is Bali, but we get to see one lost twenty-something get closer to finding her way. I’m not saying everything is peachy by the end, but everything is perhaps closer to peachy. But such is life. It’s like in City Slickers when Jack Palance says, “You city folk! You spend 50 weeks a year getting knots in your rope. Then you think two weeks up here will straighten it out.” It’s not that easy, even during a yoga intensive in Bali, as Suzanne realizes. She changes a lot over the course of her trip, but it isn’t in the way she thought she would.

Its self-deprecating realness is what makes Yoga Bitch such an outstanding read. Everything isn’t tied up in a pretty red bow at the end, but as the reader, we’re left hoping that someday everything will be.

Check out Suzanne’s website at http://suzanne-morrison.com/.

An H and Five Ws with Yoga Bitch Author Suzanne Morrison

I randomly heard about Suzanne Morrison via an email from a writers’ group buddy. Suzanne’s new book trailer was featured on “Funny or Die.” As soon as I saw the trailer for Yoga Bitch, I decided Suzanne was FUNNY and that I had to read her book. Being the yoga enthusiast and writer that I am, she seemed like my kind of gal. Well, I finished the book, and Suzanne is my kind of gal. The full review of Yoga Bitch will follow next week, but in the meantime, meet author Suzanne Morrison—one hell of a cool chick and an incredible writer.

About Suzanne Morrison: Yoga Bitch: One Woman’s Quest to Conquer Skepticism, Cynicism, and Cigarettes on the Path to Enlightenment was published in August of 2011. The book had its start as a long-running one-woman show of the same title, which played in New York, London, across the country, and around the world. Suzanne is currently developing a new show, Optimism, about her adolescent fascination with Ted Bundy, who was a friend of her parents, and she’s at work on a new memoir, Your Own Personal Alcatraz. You can find Suzanne at the Huffington Post, where she blogs about the reading life, and at her own blog, where she writes about absolutely everything she’s reading, writing, and rehearsing. Also, be sure to visit her website: http://suzanne-morrison.com/.

And now … An H and Five Ws with Yoga Bitch Author Suzanne Morrison!

How did you first get involved in yoga?
I literally just walked into a studio on a dark night when I was twenty-five and feeling lost. I don’t have any memory of why I chose the studio I did, or why that night was the night. I only remember going through that first class (taught by my teacher, Indra, who I followed to Bali) and feeling like I’d found something I had been looking for without realizing it. I literally felt like I had found a home. It’s amazing to me that now, ten years later, I still feel that way when I go to a yoga class. Who would have thought?

Who has inspired you most in life?
I’d have to say my parents. They have never stopped learning, never decided they knew enough about themselves or the world and could now sit back and watch TV. They are constantly learning new things, reading new books, changing their minds, thinking of things from new perspectives. I think age is something to fear only if you lose your curiosity. When I think of myself at seventy or eighty, I picture myself following in their footsteps, and I get kind of giddy thinking about how many good books I will have read by then.

What book should every aspiring yogi read?
Good question! I suppose it’s obvious, but the Yoga Sutras. I’m partial to Satchidananda’s translation, but I’m sure there are many other great ones out there I haven’t yet come across. That book is such a great manual for living. As for yoga memoirs, I adore Christopher Isherwood’s My Guru and His Disciple. It’s a pretty densely packed, extremely honest memoir of Isherwood’s spiritual life. He practiced bhakti yoga, hardly any asana at all, though there are some very funny stories about his brief foray into asana. And Isherwood was one of the best writers of the twentieth century, so naturally it’s very nicely written.

Non-yoga books that every yogi should read? Everything Rilke wrote, starting with Letters to a Young Poet and then moving on to his poetry. If you want to move into your heart, Rilke is an exceptionally good guide.

Where do you feel most at peace?
Well, I’m least at peace when I’m not writing, so I guess I’d have to say: when I’m writing. Writing isn’t exactly a peaceful activity, but it requires complete concentration to do it even somewhat well, and as every yogi knows, concentration is a gateway to peace of mind.

I often feel at peace in yoga, at the end of class. But sometimes during class I’m thinking about people I want to punch, or stupid asinine things I said twenty years ago. I love that moment in a class when I realize I’ve dropped all that and am finally concentrating on the poses. I don’t think I’ve ever left a class without having done that.

Jeez. Yoga is awesome. Ha! (I haven’t made it to a class in two weeks due to holiday familypalooza, but I am going back to class tonight. I want to write a love letter to yoga, I’m so excited about it.)

As a writer and performer, when have you wanted to give up … and what stopped you?
Amazingly enough, I have never wanted to give up writing. I give up performing all the time, but performing is a compulsion, so I keep coming back to it. But I can’t think of a single time I’ve wanted to quit writing—even when it seemed kind of juvenile still to be holding on to the dream of being a writer, even when my first novel was rejected. I simply have never wanted to do anything else.

I would say the closest I’ve come to despair had more to do with publishing than writing, because trying to get published, and then being published, is a very hard business. Rejection, mean reviews, and this online world that I have to constantly avoid: Goodreads, Amazon reviews. I envy writers who published before the internet made it possible to read every single thing readers think of one’s book! And the rejection never ends. The unkind reviews will never end so long as one has the good luck to keep publishing. And so the writing must be the most important thing. I learned that this fall after my book tour. It was so much fun to meet readers and do interviews and to travel, but at the end of the day, the most important thing is a very private thing: it’s me, sitting down every morning in a quiet room to put words on the page. Everything else—publishing, enduring rejection, self-promotion—is a means to this end.

Why do you write?
I don’t know. It was never a choice; it was just something I started doing the moment I could pick up a pen. Maybe it’s because I had three siblings and writing is a sneaky way to get a word in edgewise. Maybe it’s because I’m slightly mentally ill. I really don’t know. I do know that, while it’s a messy business, I’m very grateful that I get to write. It is so difficult, but being able to express the experience of being alive is a great gift I want to be worthy of. I think I would explode if I had to keep it all inside. (There you go. Maybe that’s why I write; because I would explode if I didn’t.)

I Quit

You’ve seen Wonderboys, right? Michael Douglas plays a writer who hasn’t been published in years. Throughout these years of non-publication, however, he is writing. He’s writing a magnum opus that ends up getting blown away into a river, thanks to Robert Downey Jr. Once the monstrous manuscript is gone, Douglas is asked what his book was about, to which he replies: “I don’t know.” When further questioned, he admits, “I couldn’t stop.”

I’ve been working on my novel for a year and a half, and it has—for the past six months—become the bane of my existence. I dreaded working on it. I wallowed in my own guilt because the last thing I wanted to do was write. I hated my characters. I was sick of my story. I didn’t want to do it anymore. So last week I decided to quit. And a wave of peace and joy swept over me as I moved my novel’s folder off my desktop and into my hidden documents. The peace increased as I realized I could leave that story behind. Finally, I could stop.

By no means does this mean I will stop being a writer. Instead, I’ve been filled with random, weird ideas for new projects. Apparently, my mom thinks I’m funny, so while I was home for Christmas, she asked me why I didn’t write a funny book. I responded that I don’t like reading funny books, so I probably wouldn’t like writing a funny book. Then I realized I was lying to myself. I do like funny books. I adore S#%# my Dad Says and Yoga Bitch (which I just finished; review forthcoming). And I do like writing funny blog posts, so why not try for a funny book?

So my head is now filled with strange images and ideas for stories. There is a certain amount of anxiety with starting from scratch. Will I be able to know new characters after having spent so many months with the old ones? Will I be funny if I’m actually trying to be funny? Will I be able to put together a cohesive funny story at all? I’m a writer, so I doubt myself almost every day. However, I also have faith. Faith that I can be funny; faith that I am a good writer; and finally, faith that these two beliefs were given to me for a reason: to use them.

Yes, there will be outcry from my writers’ group, who will never know how my 460-page, never-ending-a-la-Wonderboys manuscript would have ended. There will be the shaking of heads from my doubters as they mutter, “What a failure.” But I don’t feel like a failure. I feel strong, because I have finally admitted to myself that my year and a half experiment is over. Like Michael Douglas, I have let it go, and I’m ready to move on to better things. Let’s face it: I’m already a better writer now than I was a year and a half ago. Maybe my old manuscript was just practice for the one I’m going to start soon. I have been reborn, and it feels good to say, “I quit … but I am ready to begin again.”

A Cradle in Bethlehem

She was in pain—a throb that knocked the air from her lungs. She wanted to sleep, but there was a child to care for now. Her husband had gone to find food, because he feared for his wife’s weakness. She was alone; she was scared.

How long had they traveled? Days? Weeks? It felt like months. And for what? To arrive and have nowhere to stay? To set foot in town and have to sleep beneath the cold, black sky? But no, she thought with disgust, they were not beneath an open sky. They were in the home of livestock. A workhorse stomped behind her, sending a wave of dust and the scent of manure. Nauseous from the pain, she wretched into the dirty, yellow hay, and thought, this was no place for a newborn.

The newborn …

He was so quiet. Mary leaned toward the feed basin where he slept. There were still remnants of the birthing on his forehead and face. Now, there were remnants of animal food, too. She wanted to laugh at this humble beginning for the so-called “Son of the Most High,” but in the heavy silence, she feared the sound of her own voice. She plucked a piece of rotten apple from behind his little head and wondered what they were doing there. Is this what God intended? She wanted to scream! What had she done to deserve all this—traveling for weeks on the back of a broken down horse only to deliver her baby in the middle of a filthy stable?

The baby cooed at the touch of her hand, and her momentary anger abated at the sight of his wrinkled, red face. No matter the circumstances, she had done it. She had given birth to this strange child, and a lamb in the corner bayed its approval.

Behind her came the sound of footsteps. She turned toward the doorway, open wide to the night, expecting to find Joseph with some much-needed sustenance. Instead, there lingered three dark figures; she smelled their filth from where she stood, and terror overtook her. They had come to murder her and her baby, she knew. Only murderers would be awake wandering the streets of Bethlehem at that hour. She hobbled before the child, trying to hide it from their view, just as Joseph, her dear, brave husband, stepped up behind the three harbingers of doom.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” he shouted.

The three men leapt at the sound of his voice, and their heads bowed. A gruff voice responded, “Sir, we are but shepherds who have seen a vision.”

“A vision?” Joseph stepped around them, between the three men and his wife, holding a loaf of bread and two fish in his arms.

“Yes.” The shepherds stepped forward into the light cast by a small fire at the entrance to the stable. Mary was shocked to see they were hardly men; they were mere boys. The shepherd continued, “An angel appeared to us in the fields and spoke of a Messiah in Bethlehem. We have come to see for ourselves.”

A Messiah.

Suddenly, Mary’s pain was gone. Her anger at the stable dwindled to a pleasant glow. After all, animals weren’t that bad. And the hay smelled sweet, didn’t it? And her child was beautiful, even covered in dirt. And Joseph had found them food. And it was all true, wasn’t it? These shepherds proved it. Mary had not imagined the angel Gabriel. It was real—it was all real. A virgin had given birth to a child, and that child would save his people from sin and death.

Mary leaned over and scooped the child into her arms. Wrapped tightly in fabric, he could not stretch his arms or legs, but he turned his head slightly and let out a tiny cry. The sound of his voice brought tears to her eyes as she invited the shepherds inside and said, “His name is Jesus.”

A Moment with my Grandparents at Christmas

Lee and Barney Schwind have been married for sixty-five years. They’re my grandparents, and lucky for me, I grew up about three miles from their house. Family dinners happened often, and holidays were annual extravaganzas. When my parents went away on trips, my brother and I got to stay with Papa and Grandma, which was awesome, because they let us eat lots of candy and jump on the beds. Papa and Grandma are still amazingly awesome. Now, Grandma is 90; Papa is 89. I thought it was about time I interviewed them. These are some of their stories. It’s a Christmas present to my family and to you.

What were your parents like?
Grandma: My parents came over from Italy. They went to Ellis Island. You couldn’t get into this country unless you had somebody sponsoring you with the promise of a job. It was hard to get into the United States in those days. If you had any kind of illness, they didn’t let you in. A lot of people were sent back. My parents came over at different times. They didn’t meet until they were in the United States. It was really amazing that my mother and my aunt left home back then. It was a big deal to come over here, but they did it for a good reason. They wanted to make a living, and they couldn’t in Italy.

How did you two meet?
Papa: My roommate’s name was Vernon Cochran. He had red hair, so we all called him Rusty. So one Saturday, he said, “Hey, Barn, you doing anything tomorrow?” I said, “No, Why?” and he said, “Well, my girlfriend Flora, she’s gonna have a picnic this weekend, Saturday and Sunday, and she wants me to get some guys to come. We’re gonna have food and beer and girls.” I said, “Put me down for three.” So we went to the picnic and met.

Grandma, what did you like about Papa when you first met him?
Grandma: He made me laugh. He was so clever. We just hit it off immediately, and it was the greatest picnic. We played baseball, and if you got to first base, they’d bring you a beer. Then, we could rent paddleboats. Papa rented one of those and took me for a ride.

Papa, what did you like about Grandma when you first met her?
Papa: I liked the way she looked. Big knockers.

Grandma: Bad boy!

How did you ask her to marry you?
Papa: In Central Park.

Grandma: We were sitting on a rock, overlooking the park.

Tell me about your wedding.
Grandma: We got married in New York City on St. Patrick’s Day. It was during Lent, and really you weren’t supposed to do hardly anything during Lent except pray. But the Bishop was Irish, so St. Patrick’s Day was a big deal. They painted a green stripe down Fifth Avenue, and they had a big parade. He suspended all regulations on St. Patrick’s Day, so that’s why we got married on St. Patrick’s Day. Then, back to Ohio we went. I once asked Papa Schwind, “What did you think when Barney told you he was going to marry a New Yorker?” And he said, “I said, ‘Look out, boy, LOOK OUT!’”

What made you guys decide to have kids?
Grandma: It really wasn’t a big decision. Everybody did it. Everybody had kids. And of course, I wanted them.

What was your favorite thing about having kids?
Grandma: I just loved being pregnant. And everyone complains about it, but I would just sit there and think, “Oh boy, I wonder what it’s gonna look like.” It was wonderful! And when it’d move, I’d get a big thrill out of that. I always looked forward to seeing this person that was inside of me.

Papa: One time, she said, “Come over here,” and she put my hand on her belly. The baby was kicking and kicking. It was so weird. I thought, “Jeez! There’s something alive in there!”

Tell me about your faith.
Papa: When I first went to school, they had what you’d call catechism. A little book that told all about God and the Ten Commandments and all that. Priests would come into the classroom and talk to us about God, and it was kinda cool, because it made you more or less realize it could be possible. Because before that you were kind of like, huh, am I really going to die and go to heaven or am I going to die and that’s it? Or will there really be an afterlife? I had a hard time being convinced about it for a while. So then I started praying more and thinking more about it.

So do you believe in Heaven now?
Papa: Yeah, I sure do. Boy, I’m so thankful, because when you die, you get to go to Heaven. And if we’re all good, we’ll all be reunited with each other—your family and your friends in Heaven.

Grandma: Well, I certainly hope it’s true, and I’m trying to conduct myself so just in case it’s true, then I’ll be okay. I’m not looking forward to dying, however. It’s such a good old world; I hate to leave it. So we’ll see. I truly believe that we are going someplace else—someplace better than here. We’ll all be like angels!

Fake Christmas is Still Real

On an episode of Modern Family last night, they celebrated Christmas on December 16th, because that was the only time they could all get together to celebrate the holiday. Of course, since it was Modern Family, the majority of the chaotic last-minute planning and rushing around for “the perfect tree” turned disastrous—and hysterical. Gotta love that show. In the end, everything turned out okay when good old dad arranged to have fake snow poured all over the front yard for an impromptu snowball fight. In conclusion, Christmas isn’t about December 25th. It’s about who you’re with and what you’re doing.

Grandma always gets SO MANY PRESENTS!!!

Jake and I head back to Ohio tomorrow to have our own fake Christmas. That’s right: Christmas comes December 13th this year! Yes, it’s been a bit chaotic. First, there was a wedding. Then, a mini-honeymoon. Then, Thanksgiving. Then, whoops! Where did the time go? It’s Fake Christmas already! Wedding thank you cards? What wedding thank you cards? I have shopping to do! But I’m ready. I did all my shopping. Packing will be a breeze, and my parents already have the ten-foot tree ready to be covered in tinsel Saturday afternoon.

Then, on December 12th, we’ll get dressed up like we’re going to church. (We won’t actually go to church this year, since Fake Christmas Eve is on a Monday, but you get the idea …) We’ll bag up all the presents for my aunt and grandparents, and we’ll head to Aunt Susie’s. She’ll have a counter filled with shiny liquor bottles and appetizers. I’ll mix drinks while eating warm artichoke dip. Jazzy Christmas music will play (probably James Taylor), and there will be a smattering of snow on the ground.

Next, we’ll head to Papa and Grandma’s. The night will be frigid, but the whole town of Perrysburg, Ohio, will have Christmas lights lit. It will smell different outside: like ice and gingerbread. My grandparents’ over-heated house will feel just right when we get there, but soon, we’ll tear off our coats and start to sweat.

Jake likes presents!!

My brother and I will pass out gifts. My family has held to the same Christmas Eve seating arrangement since I was born. My uncle passed away a couple years ago, but his seat is—and probably always will be—kept vacant. We go around in a circle, everyone opening one present at a time so we can all ooo and ahhhh. Frank Sinatra will be playing by then, and Grandma will reminisce about that one time she saw him play live in New York.

After staring at the Christmas tree for a while, we’ll all head home. Even though I’m almost thirty, I know I’ll try to go to bed early so that Christmas morning will come faster. Jake usually stays up a little later and talks with my dad. My mom and I always joke that we can hear Jake talking anywhere in the house. We can’t hear what he’s saying, but we can hear the deep bass of his voice peacefully rising toward the roof. I will curl into bed, knowing that this is the first Christmas Jake and I get to spend as husband and wife. My feet, as always, will be freezing.

The next morning, we all rise and shine by 7:30. Mom will already have chocolate raspberry coffee brewed. The Christmas tree will be plugged in, and outside, early morning sun will cast diamonds across the snow. We will open another round of presents, all of us in pajamas. An hour later, the whole family will come over. We will eat Mom’s breakfast casserole and sweet rolls. Afterward, us “kids” will show the grandparents what Santa brought. The rest of the day will be spent watching new DVDs, listening to Christmas music, and napping—lots of napping.

Huh. Fake Christmas sounds an awful lot like real Christmas to me …

Shooting down the sticky frog on the ceiling.

Modern Family is right. Christmas isn’t about the date. I mean, seriously, we don’t even know when Jesus was born. Maybe He was really born on December 13th! Christmas is not a red number on a calendar. Christmas is the family traditions we cling to year in and year out. It’s about the people we’re with and the love we share. It’s about the old jokes we still tell and how we’ll always remember when Jake got a sticky frog toy stuck to my parents’ living room ceiling last year, and how the boys used tiny Nerf guns to shoot it down.

I can’t wait for Fake Christmas in Ohio. But I also can’t wait for my first Christmas morning waking up in Phoenix with my husband. This is our first Christmas as Mr. and Mrs. Bauer, and there is nothing fake about that.